


heartbeat

by simplyclockwork



Series: natural progression [17]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, Kissing, M/M, POV John Watson, Series, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock is Shy, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2019-11-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:28:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21528331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork
Summary: "your hand is on mine.your voice tremblesas you ask to kiss me.I can feel the warmth ofyour lips so closeto my skin.my heart beatingin my throat"
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: natural progression [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1538974
Comments: 14
Kudos: 89





	heartbeat

**Author's Note:**

> Ficlet 17 in a series of short fics I'm planning to write based on posts from the tumblr account affectionatesuggestion
> 
> The series will follow a progression into an established Johnlock relationship
> 
> (I don't like this one very much, but here it is)

In the weeks after their first kiss (and the consequential sober second), there’s a hum to their movements—a new, buzzing energy burning in undercurrents beneath everyday behaviour and routines. They go about their lives with softer, gentler edges; with stolen glances and secret smiles.

John finds out that Sherlock enjoys kissing, and quite a lot more than he would have expected. He’s even more amused to find the detective is good at it, but terribly shy. Despite the brash, bold attitude he throws into the face of anyone and everyone he can, here is an area which Sherlock approaches with tentative—bordering on timidity—fingers and words. After initiating their first consequential kisses and feeling worried the detective isn’t really interested—despite his words on New Year’s Day—John finally realizes the nervousness of it all, and tries to let Sherlock come to him first, as much as he can. He’s waited ages for these moments, and he tells himself he can wait longer if need be: at least now he knows there’s an actual end-goal.

The first time Sherlock initiates—aside from their second kiss—is over breakfast, four days after the New Year begins. It’s simple and unexpected by John, and as welcome as the sun after the clouds part following a seemingly endless downpour.

It happens like this.

John makes breakfast, like always, since a new budding relationship has done little to cure Sherlock of his uselessness when it comes to domesticity. Sherlock, seated at the table, is staring out the window, laptop open but scrolling through a screensaver that flashes through images of gory crime scene photos, pictures of large dogs, and violins. When John catches sight of the strange compilation, he idly wonders when Sherlock would have put together such a creation but chooses not to ask.

As John moves to the living room with plates in hand, he sets one in front of the detective with his vacant face. Not entirely sure Sherlock isn’t deep in his mind palace, John starts when the detective raises a hand; grips the back of John’s neck and brings their faces together.

Sherlock’s lips are soft, warm, and very, very appreciated by John’s.

They stand like that for half a minute, John’s hand still raised at his side with his own plate, and Sherlock hums into his mouth, curly hair tickling against John’s forehead.

When Sherlock finally leans away, his eyes flick briefly to John’s, warm and present, before he turns to the laptop and begins typing away as soon as the screen clears.

Red-cheeked and very pleased, unable to wipe away the smile on his face, John sits and eats his breakfast, warmth flooding into his chest.

The next time Sherlock initiates intimacy between them, rain falls on London in grey sheets, soaking their clothes and shoes; painting shivers over their skin. On their way back from lunch at Angelo’s, John is strongly reminded of the day they fell in the Thames, and he first realized there was something between them.

Caught in his thoughts, John doesn’t notice Sherlock watching him from the corner of his eye. When they mount the stairs to the flat, he is thrown by Sherlock whirling; grabbing at him with long fingers and eager hands as soon as they step into the sitting room. He finds himself pulled into a very wet chest clad in a sodden Belstaff and doesn’t protest in the least. Sherlock’s skin burns beneath his hands where he cups the detective’s face, and they stand in the living room pressed together from lips to legs.

The third time Sherlock kisses John first—his favourite time, the one that stirs something like love deep in his chest—is after a case.

Caught up in the aftermath thrill of the chase, panting with hands on knees and sweat in their hair, they watch as Lestrade and his team arrest a group of smugglers. While Scotland Yard takes care of cleanup, John and Sherlock stand in the mouth of an alley, at the edge of the scene, and there’s a smugness to Sherlock’s face that makes John roll his eyes.

But he doesn’t do so for long, because suddenly his back is pressing against cold brick, and Sherlock is standing close—too close and yet not close enough. His hand fumbles; grips John’s like a drowning man grabbing his last chance at survival. His face just inches from John’s, breath puffing out in a warm rush, Sherlock’s eyes fasten onto his.

“Can I kiss you? Now—here?” Sherlock’s voice trembles, and he speaks in a breathless sigh that makes John’s heart race hard enough to feel it in his throat. The heat from Sherlock’s skin blazes so close to his, and John finds any thoughts about their potential audience pushed aside. He disregards the proximity of Scotland Yard’s finest in favour of staring at Sherlock’s mouth.

“Yes.” He murmurs, and there’s hardly a moment between the end of his word and Sherlock closing the sliver of distance between them. Their lips move together and John threads his fingers into Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock groans into his mouth and they ignore Lestrade’s startled yell in the distance, smiling against one another’s lips.


End file.
